Counting Stars
by Bugsyboo1313
Summary: John Watson is 16 years old and has thyroid lung cancer. To release him from his depressing thoughts of possibly dying and knowing he won't live for much longer, his mother sends him to a support group to discuss his feelings. Little does he know his life will become a little infinity when he meets a certain someone. That being Sherlock Holmes. Best friends fiction. Review!
1. September

**Counting Stars (Chapter 1) **

**Sherlock / The Fault In Our Stars**

September

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**Rated: **T

**Pairings: **Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Molly Hooper & Greg Lestrade

**WARNINGS:** _Drug references, language, depressing thoughts_

_Summary: _John Watson is 16 years old and has thyroid lung cancer. To release him from his depressing thoughts of possibly dying and knowing he won't live for much longer, his mother sends him to a support group to discuss his feelings. Little does he know his life will become a little infinity when he meets a certain someone. That being Sherlock Holmes.

_***I don not own Sherlock or The Fault In Our Stars. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and John Green. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.* **_

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69. That's how many days it's been since my 16th birthday. Not that I've been counting. Today is the anniversary of a tragic event for me, and I know, this is a depressing way to begin my story. You're probably thinking, _Why the hell is he starting in such a downcast nature, _but that's the whole point of this. This is the story of my real beginning.

1,095 days ago, 4.5 miles away at the local hospital, I had been told my life would possibly end ten or twenty years earlier than it normally should. I've lived three years with this disease, and now I know I will never be able to escape the painful hell I have to swim through everyday.

Five foot four. That's how tall I am. No more, no less, and it's a lot shorter height than most boys I know. But that has nothing to do with my disease; that was just a trait I inherited from my mother. I have sandy-blonde hair that sweeps over the top of my skull in a specific fashion, as I like it as flat as possible. My brightly-colored eyes match the t-shirt I have on. Sky blue, no hint of grey in them at all; just a dash of white.

Most people believe me to be just an ordinary teenager, but to be honest, I have to work twice as hard as any kid. They just don't understand the truth. Sure I'd love to have a perfect life with a girlfriend (or boyfriend...?), but all thanks to my weakness I developed a few years back, that won't happen. Nothing happens to me.

Unfortunately, I have thyroid lung cancer. My cells started to grow uncontrollably when I had just transformed into a teenager, and I first discovered it one night when I woke up and couldn't breathe. I even had to reach over to my bedside table and text my mum to come and help because I couldn't speak a syllable. She always has her phone on in case of an emergency, at which point this was.

I think it was near 3 A.M. when we went flying to the hospital. I didn't believe my mum would actually call an ambulance, but I guess the shaking state of me just sent her into a spasm. My dad came along too, despite his studies he was doing to train for the Army.

I was told I went into an unconscious condition after about fifteen minutes when they started to do some operation on my ribs from what I felt. I was mistaken when I woke up the following afternoon and had some sort of tube connected to my nostrils.

I have to wear the cannula now all the time, except when I take it off for a few minutes to get dressed every morning. The wire splits under my neck, wraps around my ears, and comes together again at my nostrils. I was diseased with a type of cancer in which my lungs fill up with fluids every now and then and I have to be taken to the emergency room to drain them. They don't pump air to my body and refuse for me to be allowed to breathe properly, so I have to carry around a large oxygen tank that pumps air through me every couple minutes. I believe it gives me two liters of oxygen per few minutes, just so I am able to be human. I have to rely on an oxygen tank to keep me alive.

I'm not even sure what the fluid is that's inside me. It somehow just seeps into my lungs so I can't inhale ever once in a while. That happens maybe three times a year, and it certainly is a scare for my parents, because one of these days they know they're going to loose me.

So, as expected, I get extra care around the house. I can't do any physical activities because of my weakness, but I've found some other things that interest me instead. Books are a great thing I've come by, as I seem to have one in my hand at all times. Mostly for school it will be a history novel, my best and favorite subject to learn about. I go to a private school to avoid any chance of being bullied or pushed around at a local school. Sure, my friends are limited, but I'd rather be safe than be the number one target on campus.

On weekends, instead of going to church like most kids do, I go to a cancer support group every single Sunday. It's pretty boring, as we always tall about the same things, but we always discuss our struggles, loses, progress with our health, stuff like that. Not even all the kids there suffer from cancer. Some just go because they have some other illness, like a permanent injury or they're deaf in one ear. The leader of our group, Phillip Anderson, has no disease but gladly runs the meetings anyways. I think his grandmother had cancer, so he has a sort of relationship with the disease. He's been immune to it a couple times, but it's never fully developed in his cells. They've threatened to grow uncontrollably before, but they seemed to pull away and function properly in the end.

My mum and I say nothing on the car ride to the small building in the middle of town. I live in central London, but it's more open compared to the city part. She also turns the radio on even if I have distaste with the music notes. She tunes the volume so its lower and I only listen to it delicately while the window is down and my blonde locks blow towards the front of my hairline. The early September breeze feels glorious on my cheeks, and I can even feel some of it running through the small gap between my nose and the tube connected to it.

My hopes kinda die when we turn into the bumpy parking lot, my mum halting the car in the far corner even though there weren't any other vehicles around. She never asks me if I'm ready; instead she just gives me a casual nod and I slowly rise from the car seat and step onto the pavement. I have a little trouble getting out and settling my oxygen tank on the ground, but eventually I am all situated and can head towards the building. Now mind you, I literally do not carry around an oxygen tank. It's in something resembling a small duffle bag that I can wheel around. The outside fabric is an Army camouflage pattern and the handle is pitch-black.

As I stride lousily over to the front of the building where I go for the group meetings, my mum rolls down the window and shouts so I can hear. "Hey, try to make some friends today!"

I kinda snort in a goofed-up way. "No promises Mum," I mumble back.

There door handle feels cold like ice, as it always is, and I slip inside and yank my bag behind me so the wheels don't get stuck on the small bump below the door's base. Just inside is an open room with a few couches and a table, but our usual gathering place is downstairs in the basement. It's not a creepy basement like most people would picture, as I guess the owners tried to make the atmosphere as comfy as possible.

There are a few kids my age around, two to be exact, and they smile and wave as I pass by. "Hey, John," they both say, making me feel welcome that morning. Both are teenagers who come to the support group; one is a girl with ginger hair named Molly Hooper, and the other is a close friend of mine. Mary Morstan was my past girlfriend once upon a time, but even though we broke up I still consider her to be my best friend. Her short, blonde hair curls on the bottom, and she always pulls it back off her face with pink and purple clips.

I head around the corner for the elevator, since I run out of breath easily when hiking up and down stairs while carrying an almost five pound tank. Even then the cannula can't pump enough oxygen into me quickly enough. Sometimes I have the ability to go down, but no way on the face of the earth could I hike up a flight of steps.

That's when I accidentally ran into him. Tall, about six foot, brunette curls for hair, lovely blue, grey, _and _green eyes, but the thing that stood out the most were his cheekbones. Sharp, high, they made his face look longer and leaner than it would have been without them.

First I hit his foot and then I fully slammed into him, causing the stranger to stumble back but stay on his feet remarkably. I'm extremely clumsy. The collision gave me quite a scare and I jumped in fear that I'd hurt him. Normally I'm not as cautious, since I am the strongest and toughest of any of my 'friends', but when I don't know the person, I act like a complete idiot.

Once he'd recovered and had his hands on my shoulders for balance and support, I couldn't help but yelp out. "Sorry!" I apologized, briefly glancing up at his forehead and then switching my focus back down to the tiled floor. It didn't stay there for long as I looked up to mean what I said and show it with my expression.

"Oh," was the first thing he said to me. It wasn't in a stupid way, as in not knowing how to respond, but it was more of a startled state. "It's okay," he assured, and I gave him a cheeky smile in return. His voice was deeper than it should have been for a kid only a year younger than me.

"So," I fumbled again, "are you new here?" It seemed the legit question to ask; the only one that would get me somewhere.

"Yeah. Don't understand why my ridiculous mother is making me come to these meetings." His attitude was slightly negative and I realized he judged people significantly.

"Well, the whole point of coming is because you have a disease. I'm assuming that's true with yourself as well?"

"Yeah. And?" He looked at me for a reasonable comeback. I didn't have anything to say.

"You've got lung cancer," he suddenly said, staring down at the cannula in my nose and the oxygen tank below my left hip. I raised my eyebrow at him; it was partially obvious, but the other half of my brain left me curious.

"What else do you assume?" I asked, stepping back a few paces and extending up to my full height.

"Oh, I can deduce a lot about you," he claimed, sounding so positive yet like a stalker at the same moment.

"Deduce?" I noticed, whatever that meant. "Like what?"

The unknown teenager gave a long drag of air before speaking out again. "From your looks, you've got a sister who's becoming an alcoholic. She's recently been starting to drink beer almost every night and you try to avoid her because of the emotional swings she goes through." I almost choked on my own spit. "She's recently dumped all her anger out on you for no apparent reason and now you feel ashamed that she's your sibling." This guy was insane. Not only was he telling secrets about my family, but he was also saying it _to my face._ I guess I asked for it, but of all the things he could say, he mentioned my sister's drinking problem. After all, she is only three years older than me.

"You yourself are quite lonesome. You injured your left shoulder when you were a child and that's why you walk with a funny stride." I opened my mouth in an 'excuse me' sort of manner. "You've got strong moral principles, which is probably why you can't trust me at this very instant. You're looking at me with such a gesture that I must be the most obnoxious person alive." I swallowed and tried to interrupt him, but he kept ranting on with haste.

"The cannula connected to your nostrils shows you're currently suffering from lung cancer, which by the way I'm so sorry to hear about, and perhaps that's why your mother thinks you're so lonely. No wonder she's sending you to a cancer support group." I actually grinned when he apologized so randomly in the middle of his sentence. "It's remarkable how much I can decipher about a human when I first encounter them by just looking at them."

"Well, to be honest, it was a bit rude," I told him.

I found it unnatural when he smiled like the clouds had parted in the sky and the sun had projected a spotlight onto his figure.

"Oh, and one more thing," he began, but I cut him off with a lousy sigh. "I'm thrilled that you're the only person I've met who can stand my behavior." I stared at him with wide eyes. I guess the tube in my nose was distracting, as he kept lowering his gaze to observe it. I didn't see why it attracted so much attention. I hated it when people stared at me in public for having a physical weakness.

I licked my lips before the corners of my mouth lifted a little. The suit he was wearing was free of wrinkles, but his outfit fit him in style. He didn't try to look fancy; I suppose it was just his normal wardrobe. Like mine being a pair of jeans, a plaid long-sleeved shirt, and my favorite black jacket. For shoes, I stuck with the classic converse sneakers. "What makes you say that?" I questioned, hinting for a sign of proof.

He looked like I was a toy but rolled with it anyways. Then, he dedicated that second to showing me the widest smile he could muster. "Because you didn't say 'piss off' when I was decoding you."

Before I could come back with a sort of reply, he swept by me with long strides of his legs. I think my heart stopped, which would have been a major disaster considering my lungs didn't function in the first place. And to add to the pile, my brain wasn't receiving messages either.

He left me starring at the blank wall without even telling me his name. I tried to digest his words but didn't come across any help. I let out a noise that was sort of like a chuckle. I was slightly confused by his ability and knowledge to do such a skilled trick, without even asking me about my life beforehand.

And yet at the same time, I was highly amused.


	2. Goodness Gracious

**Counting Stars (Chapter 2) **

Goodness Gracious

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No one in our support group ever wants to meet downstairs. I mean, who wouldn't? It's a basement, aka dark, creepy, lots of shadows, except for a few windows on three walls that always have the blinds pulled over them. If they would actually open them, another reason being it's warm outside, it would be a pretty nice room. It's comfy on its own; there's a couch on the far wall, and the rest of the chairs have cushions on the seats and are arranged in a circle, couch included.

A folding table is always set up with drinks, particularly lemonade, and snacks like cookies, crackers, and certain vegetables. No peanut butter is allowed because of allergy purposes, but that just means I can eat all the peanut butter I want at home.

My friend Greg Lestrade, who's half blind, sits on the far right side of the couch, cool sunglasses perched on his nose to make him look spiffy. His hair is short and little hairs stick up on his hair, their color resembling a pitch-black sky. Molly Hooper and Mary Morstan are still upstairs, but our group leader Anderson, a kid named Henry Knight, and the new tall guy with curly brown hair are already seated and immersed in a conversation. Lestrade sits alone, nit talking to anyone even if he's the joker of us all.

I drag my wheeled oxygen tank over to the empty chair next to him. The kid with no name yet sits across from me in the circle and Anderson is always in the center of the entire group. I scan the mostly empty room with my eyes and nite who sits where, even if they had possibly passed away a few days prior from battling a disease. _Molly, Mary, Henry, Irene, new kid, Anderson, Sally, Jim, me, Greg. _There are a few empty spaces between us, and I assume either no one wants to come or we lost a whole bunch of our friends.

The elevator door pulls open and the two girls step out, the ginger and blonde sitting next to each other. They both smile and ask how I'm doing, and I always reply the same thing. "Fine, thanks."

Our meeting starts a few minutes late since we all tell Anderson who is here, and he waits for them to join us down in the basement. Lestrade nibbles on a chocolate chip cookie and Mary sips from a Dixie cup filled with pink lemonade. Jim sits right next to me and gloats. He's the bully of the group and no one seems to like him, but when he cooperates he's actually a pretty nice guy. I forget what type of disease he has, but it has something to do with his brain, I remember that much. His black hair is always slicked back by a bomb and looks wet, possibly a factor if he takes a shower every morning. But when he gets bored in our support group meetings, he starts to elbow me in the ribs for fun, which is not particularly healthy for my lungs.

Every meeting starts the same usual way: an introduction of ourselves. We say our name, age and how we're doing. _John, 16, been great, _is what I would say when they reach me. Greg always begins since he's so willing to share his thoughts, and then when Molly goes she resembles a mouse. We go right around the circle, meaning I am last.

I know Mary has breast cancer, but I truly can't recall half of the diseases in the room. I've lost track or tend to zone out for most of our time together. Lestrade is half blind, Jim has a brain problem, and I really don't know anything else.

I do perk up a little however when the new addition to our group is up to speak for the first time. In order to be heard, he chooses to stand and show off. He towers over us with his wondering blue-green eyes, not feeling the least bit nervous as he prepares his short speech. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he says, his voice rising at the end of his sentence. "I've been in remission for about half a year now." There's a slight noise of clapping around the cluster of chairs, congratulating him on his short recovery period.

Anderson speaks over the banging of hands and offers Sherlock an opportunity to tell a bit about himself. "What should we know about you?"

"Well, as one of you already knows," he gestures to me with his entire hand, palm up to the ceiling, "I've got a rather odd talent."

He doesn't know my name yet, but I can't help but comment back on the lacking statement. "I'll say," I mumble under my breath, and only Greg hears me. He finds it hilarious and bursts out into laughter. I give a slight chuckle too and nudge him with my elbow, smiling effortlessly and secretly telling him to shut up. What I find interesting is that our newcomer doesn't give a look and explain how we're being rude, and instead he just smirks like he's proud of himself.

"And what kind of skill is this?" Anderson asks, the one who seems 100% remotely engaged in the conversation. Of course us others are listening and paying attention, and occasionally there's a crack of someone popping air in their joint or cracking a snack with their jaw. A slurp made be heard when someone is drinking, but everyone is for the most part quiet.

Holmes looks around the circle once before going on. I think he's doing what he did to me to everyone else. "I can tell almost your whole life story by one look at you."

Most of the girls pause and look disgusted. "Isn't that a tad bit creepy?" Irene questions, sitting with perfect posture in her chair.

"No kidding," Henry adds.

"It's true." I decide to share our story of our first letting in shorter terms. "I've seen him do it. Not ten minutes ago as well." The new kid gives me a heartwarming smile, like I'm telling a compliment about him.

The brunette turns his head to Henry and inputs something he really shouldn't have said. "Oh, and says the one who had a father who worked in a science lab as a security guard and spied on people all day." The receiver went dead quiet and refused to add anything else.

She's so appalled that Molly has to mention an important point to him. "You do still know that was personal and didn't need to be claimed out loud, right?"

"I take pride in my ability to make myself more confident and brilliant than other human beings." A hush went over the room and we all sat stunned. Who did this guy think he was? A superior god? In my opinion, he seemed like a jerk.

But I shouldn't judge him right away, because I barely even know the dude.

"So..." I think that's the first time someone has sent Anderson into silence, not knowing how to pick up the discussion again. "Would you like to share some of your fears with the group, Sherlock?"

"My fears?" He sounds both willing yet uncomprehending at the same moment, his voice ending the question in a high-pitched note. "I'm sure I have some, but they're not coming to me right now. And why I would tell you anyways is ridiculous, considering my fears are personal."

Jim shifted next to me and raised his hand a little, removing his opposite hand from his mouth. He tends to chew on his fingernails, and I find the tiny chomping noises to be distracting and disgusting. "But, we all did it when we first came here. Shared our fears I mean."

"Well I'm sorry to inform you that you won't be getting answers from me." I felt a tap on my shoulder to my left. Lestrade had grabbed my attention from the couch, and I breathed out of my mouth, my nose exhaling some air into the cannula. He made a gesture with his hands, telling me without words that this newbie was crazy. I whispered back, "I know," nodding my head in agreement.

"Okay, then we shall be moving on, I guess." From the alarmed sound of his voice, Anderson no longer wanted to talk to such a rude person. Sally goes next, and then I dread the moment when it's Jim's turn to go.

"I'm Jim Moriarty," he says smugly, claiming his place as the most outgoing and powerful in the group. "15 years old, 16 next week. I hate the internal distinction my brain is supplying me with, but I'm hanging in there." He sits Bach down and I know it's my small moment in the spotlight. I hate being pushed into talking alone in front of people, but I've learned to deal with it in my time being here.

Phillip Anderson lets me sit when I speak, since he knows I have problems with breathing even when I have to stand up. Besides, I'm comfy and tend to be lazy. So instead of standing, I elect to sit up a little higher in my seat, closing off the introductions with more or less of a bang.

"Hi everybody. As most of you already know, I'm John." Sherlock had his eyes locked on me, and I don't know why my cheeks become hot and turn pink. "I turned 16 a few months ago. Have ling cancer, and I'm doing okay."

"Have they gotten better?" Mary fires a question at me with a soft tone. She always talks like that, since she's a very close friend of mine. A few heads turn to look at her, and then they flew back yo me as I report the news.

"Sadly, no. Nothing has progressed dramatically, but my lungs haven't gotten worse either. Thanks for asking." She smiles cutely and hunches back in her chair, her blonde hair neatly swept off the side of her forehead.

Our meeting continues with us telling personal stories, which Holmes doesn't get into. He just dist patiently and listens, being polite unlike the manners he was showing earlier. The setup of our discussions is the same every week. Introductions, stories, life, and then we close off with reading a list of names of people who used to be with us and have now passed away. We all stand, including me, and hold hands in our circle. The list goes on and on, but when it's finally over Anderson wishes us good do and lets us be free for the remained if our Sunday. Our meetings typically last an hour, but today we didn't stay for as long and it's only 1:53 P.M.

I have to take the elevator to get back upstairs, because if I don't I'll surely pass out. The cannula slid a little out of place as I stood to depart, and so as I push the button to open the doors I stick it back into the position so it doesn't bother me. Molly and Lestrade both get into the elevator with me, and I say farewell as I leave them and go to stand outside and wait for my mom. She usually leaves the house when we have a quarter of an hour left, and so today she is still on the road.

I'm surprised to see Sherlock is standing alone on the sidewalk, bouncing on his feet with his arms behind his back. I know he's a bit of an odd fellow, but I decide to get along with him and try to make a new friend anyways. I never told him something mean earlier in our meeting, so I suppose I don't have to apologize for it.

"Hello." He turns around to come in eye contact with me.

"Oh. Hi." I can tell he's bad with talking to people.

"You got an odd sort of personality." My sentence folds out into a whisper because I don't really want him to hear me.

"And you don't?" he questions back, raising an eyebrow for an effect. I stare at the parking lot in disbelief.

"Sorry." I'm completely startled when I hear the word pop out of his mouth. "That was a bit, uncalled for."

"Yeah...Just a bit." I watch him as he shuffles around, trying to plan his next move with caution.

He finally comes to a wise decision and has to bend his head down a tad to look at me in the eyes. "What's your name?"

I find myself replying quickly without even any hint of comprehension, knowing that Sherlock had learned my name earlier. "John."

"What's your full name?" He wants more than just what I told him.

"John H. Watson."

"What does the 'H' stand for?"

"Why would I tell you that?" I ask, giving him a look because he's almost a total stranger to me. "For god's sake, you could be a serial killer for all I know."

He nods his head in amusement. "Not far off on the target, actually." My pupils go wide in alarm.

"That's a joke right?" I just want to make sure as I lowered my eyelids to squint with suspicion at him.

"Of course it was."

"Oh good." You can pick out the relief in my voice. There's a moment of silence before I pick up the conversation again. "Funny thing you did to me, right when I first approached you. Nice way to meet someone for the first time."

"Are you insulting my behavioral actions?"

I back up a little in fright. "No!" The wheels on my oxygen tank get stuck in a crack that had formed in the pavement, but it's not enough for me to trip over it. "It's just so..." I stumble to find the right phrase, "not ordinary."

Holmes just sort of hums and I bend my head down, almost in shame. He speaks before I can come to mu senses to do so first. "I'm quite surprised you didn't say something much harsher when I made those deductions about you."

"And why's that?" I ask, curious.

"That's not how people normally respond."

"What do people normally say?"

He fires back a rude remark. "Piss off."

I laugh a little and roll my bag I carry with me at all times slightly closer. "So am I enlightening you?" I wonder, thinking that meant I was different and unique compared to other humans. Perhaps I was meant to meet this guy, that I would have a strong bond with him.

"Maybe. I think you're trying to recruit yourself."

"As in?"

He smiles at me like I'm a pleasant flower. "You still trust me."

I stare with my lips open for a few seconds in silence before I get up the nerve to get to know him better. "And what makes you say that?"

"You know where to balance you right and wrongs on a scale. Strong moral principles. If you thought I was the incorrect person to hang around, you wouldn't be talking to me right now."

He's insane yet speaks every word as the truth. I'm both sent into amazement and flattery at the same time. "Damn," I compliment, "you're absolutely right." He smirks once more to prove the truth as he knows so. "I'll give you credit for that one."

He's frozen like a statue and watches my every move. I even gesture my hand to him as a sign of overwhelming shock and yet he remains still. "Why are you staring at me?" I suddenly blurt out, hoping the answer is not what I think it is. _Come on, I just met the guy for god's sake. Surely he wouldn't get interests in me that quickly. _

"Because John H. Watson —"

"Just John," I say, cutting him off.

He goes on like nothing happened. "You're going to be some very good use to me."

"And how do you know that?" I question, knowing he won't get away with it this time.

"Because you know that helping me is the right thing to do. Again, strong moral principles," he adds, winking in my direction.

I catch on that he didn't mention what I was helping him with. "So, what am I to do?"

He smiles. "Why not influence a life?" And with his comment he decides to leave me be, strolling down the sidewalk so I am alone to consider his thought. I let my oxygen tank flow air into me, and I tap my foot on the ground to get rid of my stumped posture.

I feel a vibration against my thigh and pull out my cell phone. A message has been sent to me from an unknown number, but I read the text anyways. One word is flashing on the screen, and after it come two initials which undoubtedly belong to my new oddly-made friend. I look up from the device and see Sherlock slouching against the corner of the next building over, a grin spread over his cheeks and, to my slight horror, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

**Dinner? -SH**


End file.
